Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tonight. It had to be tonight, the first night Dr. Ziegler had off in ages, in eons. Moira had been counting, and the woman had worked a full two weeks straight, only having gone to her quarters for a few hours of sleep in the early, early morning. She wasn’t sure how she’d survived so long, but her tenacity was impressive, and unbelievable, if Moira had not witnessed it herself, and altogether fascinating, what with it being a result of both her own research and her almost inhuman inner resolve. Moira had read about her work, about her story, but it paled in comparison to the real thing. To Dr. Angela Ziegler.

No paper, no tabloid, no tribune ever described her as she really was, only remarking on her angelic beauty, remarkable intelligence and achievements at such a young age, and gentle attitude. She had all of those things, yes, but they lacked something key to her character: how easy she was to rile up with her strict moral code, how fiery she was at a challenge. How her nose bunched up like that of a bunny when Moira pointed out how much quicker her trials would go with mammalian test subjects or how the blue of her eyes burned so intensely when Moira ignored her requests to throw away her empty energy drink cans. That one had been an accident, really. Moira hadn’t meant to let them pile up, but Angela pulled another all-nighter, and she wanted to keep her company. To make sure she was safe.

There were many other things they didn’t know, of course, many things that made Moira smile, made her laugh, made her flush, that even made her frown when she thought of others feeling the same. She knew other women here saw how beautiful she was, and disgustingly, she knew men did, too. That stupid boy Dr. Ziegler rebuilt hung around like an irritating housefly having snuck in through the back door, though she regretted insulting such a creature with his likeness. Even Captain Amari dropped in from time to time, talking to her sweetly, but Moira reminded herself it was motherly. She hoped it was at least.

Yes, tonight had to be the night before anyone else got to her first. She would spend the evening with Dr. O’Deorain, not Oxton, not Amari, not that blasted Shimada. Moira had the perfect plans. All she had to do was pitch them to her.

“Dr. Ziegler,” she began. “How would you fancy an evening with me?”

Her reflection blinked back at her with pity, making her shake her head. Too casual with the formal address. She tried in vain to slick back a cowlick and cleared her throat before practicing another line, watching herself closely. “Would you perhaps enjoy partaking in an evening activity with me, Doctor?”

She pursed her lips, flashed herself a smile. Neither were helpful. Whether it was the stiffness of the facilities or the lack of privacy in the women’s restroom, nothing she came up with sounded suave or smooth to her. Moira only seemed a little pathetic and a lot desperate.

“I would welcome your companionship on a trip to a lovely riverside restaurant tonight, Doctor.”

No.

“Would you…”

“How about…”

“May I ask…”

Over and over again, she tried, but nothing worked, and over time, her tongue became more and more tied until frustration took over.

“Angela—”

No. No, that was far too personal, too revealing for this stage. What if she felt uncomfortable and said no, and they had to boil proteins side-by-side in awkward silence until one of them eventually left? Or worse, Angela reported her, and she lost her job for something far worse than what she had done previously.

With a sigh, she fixed her now askew collar. It was not that serious, but her brain rolled the possibilities around in her head like a destructive, all-consuming bowling ball, and she could think of nothing but those bright blue eyes staring up at her when she approached, curious, inquisitive, and brilliant.

It had to be tonight.

It was about midday when she’d finally found her, the morning bustle having died as all the various departments slowed for a lunch break. The cafeteria was filled to the brim with chatter and food and people, far too many people, but Moira didn’t stop to look amongst their faces. When clinic work, or worse, her morning meetings, had subsided, the good doctor often retreated to the solace of their shared lab. Moira felt a bit of pride at that, that Ziegler would rather spend her time in her company than in the busy breakroom, and so, with a smile on her face that she hoped concealed her inner turmoil, she found her there, head on her desk and blonde locks splayed.

Moira’s left hand itched at the sight. “Hello, Doctor,” she said as smoothly as she could. There was no discernible difference to her usual manner of speaking.

Dr. Ziegler stirred and let out a soft, sleepy sound that made both her heart and lower stomach spark. She cradled her head in her arms and turned ever so slightly to regard her with one tired eye. Poor girl, Moira thought to herself. “Hallo. How are you?”

Oh, that sweet little accent dripping with sleep, how it tickled her ears, and oh, how polite she was right now! There were many times Ziegler told her outright to leave her alone or grumbled something about disturbing her rest, but Moira never minded. She was just happy to hear her voice.

“Just fine, really. Grand, even,” she replied while pulling up a chair, sitting down with her legs crossed. Act casual, woman. “Tired?”

Ziegler let out one of those slight laughs through her teeth before turning her face back down on the desk. “Is it obvious?” came her muffled, sarcastic voice.

Moira squinted at her and cocked her head. “No.” That earned her a slightly amused chuckle. “You must be looking forward to sleeping a full eight hours tonight, hm? In a bed.”

“In my bed, yes,” Ziegler said gently. It wasn’t a correction, but Moira bit her tongue at the small implication her mind had made in that choice of words. Dr. Ziegler would sleep in her bed tonight, of course. Where else?

“I understand,” Moira nearly cooed. She was so soft like this that it was difficult to hold back her affection. Things were almost easier when Ziegler was awake and barking at her, when she could fight fire with fire and hold this odd little schoolgirl crush inside. Not that she had a crush at this age, no. Moira was simply attracted to her. “Have you, ah, eaten anything? Or are you using your break to sleep as usual?”

“Sleep,” she mumbled. Exactly as Moira suspected.

“I have something for you, then,” whispered Moira, leaning forward and reaching inside her coat. Early that morning, she had giddily stuffed a well-wrapped package inside and promptly frowned at herself for such unbecoming childlike glee. In all her years…

“What is it?” Ziegler asked, finally sitting up and rubbing her pretty eyes. They would work this woman to death without a second thought, and she would never demand they stop.

So very gently, Moira placed it on her desk and scooted it towards her, watching her closely. When Ziegler only stared back at her, she beckoned her to open it and smiled like she was taming a skittish deer or maybe a bear preparing to rip her to shreds. It depended on the day.

With dainty fingers, she untied the string Moira had so carefully made into a little bow and peeled back the brown paper, softly gasping as its contents were revealed: a buttery, flaky pastry shining from a perfectly golden egg wash and a chocolate filling peeking out the side.

“Where did you get this?” Ziegler asked with incredulous joy.

Moira had imagined this very moment when her hands were white with flour. “The oven. I crafted it myself.”

Ziegler’s eyes flitted back and forth between her and the chocolate bun with awe. “I didn’t know you could bake.”

“In another life, I own a bakery with the most fanciful pastries from all over the world, creating flavor profiles we can hardly imagine now,” she said with a proud smile. “Baking is a science, you know.”

“I do know,” Ziegler responded, her fingers playing with the edge of the paper. “I love to bake, but I’ve never made something like this.”

Her smile grew wider as thoughts of tying an apron behind her fellow doctor’s back filled her mind, perhaps preparing to teach her a recipe from home. “How charming.” 

For that moment of silence between turns in their conversation, Moira felt goosebumps prick up the pale skin of her covered arms, for Ziegler looked at her as if she had just found an artistic masterpiece long hidden by a dusty drape.

Eventually, she swallowed. “You may eat it. I made it for you.”

There was something behind Ziegler’s eyes, a flash of curiosity and confusion that Moira wanted to pull out of her. She wanted her to inquire why Moira would do such a thing, why she cared, how much time it took to bake her a little treat. But she did none of that, and instead, Ziegler lifted the pastry silently, using the paper as a napkin to catch any crumbs, and bit into it. 

She outright moaned. Moira felt her eye twitch, but Ziegler covered her mouth to speak to her as she chewed. “Doctor, this is incredible!”

How happy she sounded through her mouthful of buttery sweetness made Moira nearly melt into a pitiful puddle of long bones and red hair. At least her large labcoat would cover the safety hazard. Oh, how pleased she sounded because of something Moira herself had done! How she wanted that to continue, how she wanted to hear that joy every day, every night, every morning. She wanted to be the cause of all her glee, the reason for her contentment, her source of pure, unfiltered bliss. That want threaded its way into the very walls of her heart, into each and every valve, atrium, and ventricle, and she was powerless to the happy hurt that needle left behind. Her brain may as well have been a useless, dead sack of grey tissue as her heart overtook its functions, commanding her to open her mouth and speak. 

“Angela,” she said flatly before the rest of her body could catch up. “Go out with me.”

Immediately, the good doctor’s eyes went wide, and she gasped for the tiniest fraction of a second before choking on the bite she had just taken. Ziegler coughed, fist over her mouth, over and over again while Moira fidgeted, leaning closer to her as she awaited her answer. She hadn’t expected it to be such a surprise, although she also hadn’t expected it to come out so… bluntly.

“Please,” Moira added, growing more and more nervous by the second. She ran a hand through her hair. “I can easily acquire reservations at a lovely restaurant by the water, if you’d like. It would be much better than anything here.”

Ziegler’s spluttering continued. One part of Moira worried for her health, wondered if her face would turn purple and force her to perform CPR, and another piece thought that perhaps she was appalled at her audacity to ask her on a date, that she was disgusted and revolted. That maybe Moira had misinterpreted what she thought were little hints at an attraction to women. That she was laughing at her.

With a heavy sigh, she held back a deprecating comment about how hideous and freakish Ziegler must have found her. “Simply declining is an option. You don’t have to choke to death.”

She shot her an annoyed look, her blue eyes equal parts watery, pained, and disapproving, and Moira figured she was allowed to help her. Awkwardly, she patted her in the middle of her back once, twice, and a third time before air returned to her lungs.

Every cell in Moira’s right hand jittered in place from touching her, and she tried to shake the fizzy feeling away as casually as she could while Ziegler caught her breath and wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice a bit weak. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Oh, so she was stalling now. Moira felt as if she’d been waiting an eternity, even if it had hardly been a minute, and she lifted her eyebrows at her expectantly.

Still, she waited, wiped her mouth, and took a deep breath. “So what did you have in mind? Dinner?”

Her cheeks warmed, and she couldn’t stop the corners of her lips from curling. “Is that a yes?”

The doctor smiled back. “It depends. I would prefer dinner.”

“To what? I’m not getting reservations for lunch,” she smirked. Ziegler was playing coy with her. Cute. “Dinner, yes. Tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Moira watched her pupils flick back and forth between red and blue. She would have given anything to know what was going through her head. “Okay, sure. Dinner tonight.”

It took the severest level of self control not to jump up and cheer and click her heels or twirl or embarrass herself terribly with a bow, so instead, she steeled herself into a facade of cool confidence. “I look forward to it.”

The rest of the work day was nothing less than true torture as the minutes passed far more slowly than was possible. Moira struggled to focus on her own tasks and her research, wanting instead to skip to close of play and forget about her test tubes and centrifuges, so she shirked her duties to pester her de facto lab partner with hypothetical ethical issues, pushing her buttons in every way she could find, whether the subject of her imaginary dilemmas be humans, bunnies, or bees. It was unfortunate for her, then, that Dr. Ziegler was largely too busy to entertain her, brushing her off and telling her to ask again later without even listening to her question. 

It wasn’t her fault, she knew. Having been so swarmed with clinical patients, Ziegler had been unable to perform her paper duties, reports, record test results, or make progress on whatever genius breakthrough she was striving for this time. Her brilliance fascinated and inspired Moira to reach higher, but ah, how much further the good doctor could go if she realized how suffocating the boundaries she erected around herself were. No matter how much she hinted at this, Ziegler reassured her that Overwatch was the best possible course of action for her, the best career path, though she hated calling it that. Perhaps, without the real thing to entertain her, it was time again to read through her past journals. 

Moira lost herself in these from time to time. Reading Angela’s work, her abstracts, her methods, her trials, every word she had specifically chosen to relay her results and her purpose… It was like a game, trying to trace her diction back to what she was thinking at that moment in time, trying to trace who she was, who she had become. Her motives, her desires, her past, her future. The text was scribbled on relentlessly as she scratched and annotated note after note to her heart’s content each and every time she read it, but no matter how often she went back, there was no new secret message waiting just for her.

A hand on her desk pulled her out of her fantasies, and she glanced up to see Ziegler looking at her with such grief and disappointment that she was worried someone had perished in the field.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m afraid I have to postpone,” she said, her sad, tired eyes boring deep into her own. 

Moira blinked and sat up straight. “Why? They’ve not pulled you into another emergency, have they? They’ll have another on their hands when your heart gives out.”

She scoffed and shook her head, her blonde locks shaking with it. How they remained so fluffy, she wasn’t sure. “That won’t happen, but no…” She ran a hand down her pretty face. “I’m so behind on my regular work that I need to stay late to catch up. I thought if I focused hard enough today, I could sneak away early, even, but my mind is wandering.”

Wandering? To what? “Forcing yourself to rot at that desk with your nose down and spirit squashed will do you no good. You cannot focus because you’ve had no rest, no enjoyment.”

Her arms crossed. “Says you.”

Moira made a disgruntled, questioning sound.

“Yes,” Ziegler teased with a playful smile. “You work just as much as I do.”

Her mouth opened to counter her, but Moira knew very well it was the truth. It was her desire to do so, though, and it was for her goals, whether that be finding the secrets of life or making sure her favorite coworker had company. Dr. Ziegler was always pushing aside her own wants for others. Moira wasn’t like that. At least she thought she wasn’t.

Seizing her silence, Ziegler picked up a can next to her and shook it, the tiny bit of caffeinated liquid left jostling against the tin’s walls. She laughed. Laughed! How quickly she had shifted from exhausted disappointment to mocking her.

Moira snatched it from her as gently as she could and spoke to her before turning it up to finish it off. “At least it isn’t on the floor, hm?”

“Not right now, it isn’t,” she parried, sitting on the edge of her desk. This was an odd little habit of hers, and Moira often questioned in her mind if she enjoyed encroaching on her space to assert her dominance in the lab, dominance she wouldn’t keep.

Moira’s eyes tried to glance down at her bottom half, but she forced them to stay on her face. “No, it isn’t. In any case, my point still stands. You will perform better if you let loose, so to speak.”

Ziegler tucked a little piece of hair behind her ear and regarded her through her black frames. Moira could never decide if she preferred her with or without them. “And if someone comes looking for all the paperwork I’ve not completed?”

The sound that escaped her was entirely dismissive. Not of her, but of this “someone” she mentioned who was somehow more important than she was. “Then they can wait for once. It won’t kill them, Doctor.”

“Hmph,” was all she responded with, staring at her unused glassware across the room. Perhaps she was picking up on Moira’s uneagerness to work as well.

“The longer you sit on my desk and argue with me, the less time you spend on your precious paperwork,” she said, voice low. Ziegler’s body was so close, and she examined every little bit she could see from this angle, every little reaction she could have to her words, her tone, her volume. “I know you know this.”

But with that, she hopped up and started walking back to her own workspace, away from her prying eyes. “What time tonight, Doctor?”

That was easier than Moira expected. “The reservation is for seven.”

The clicking of her boots across the tile floor stopped suddenly. “Seven? That’s a bit early… I’ll have to leave even earlier to get ready.”

“Why?” Moira asked without thinking, her sharp chin resting on her hands. “You look beautiful already.”

Ziegler turned and looked at her, her cheeks dusted with an adorable rosy shade of pink, but she just as quickly looked away. “And you? You don’t need to change?”

“I always dress sharply under the coat, Doctor.”

A soft breath that Moira barely picked up escaped her. “Right. I’ll freshen up at the very least. Just let me know when we’re going soon.”

“Of course,” Moira agreed, shifting her attention back to her journals as Ziegler revived her screens. On the top page, there lay one stray blonde strand of hair, silken and perfect.

The entrance to Overwatch's prestigious headquarters was proud and entirely overbearing, not unlike the people who scurried about under its roof and its banner, so incredibly devoted to their cause, so morally right and eager to show the world from their high, high horses. Moira found it all entirely too amusing, and it was even funnier knowing she was not to tell a soul where she was employed. Proud and haughty Overwatch’s not-so-little dark secret.

She stood under it now, stood in its large, looming shadow, waiting for its shining star of biomedical ingenuity and pure, golden good. Ziegler had dipped out of the lab early, as she said, to prepare herself for the evening, although Moira was unsure what more she could do to improve her beauty. They had little time to waste anyway, and in that short bit, Moira herself had ducked into the ladies’ room to reapply her hair gel and the lightest spritz of her cologne, making sure not to overdo it. It wasn’t for everyone to smell, only those in close enough proximity to be considered intimate. She sniffed its subtlety on her wrist, smiled, but then promptly frowned, realizing how much better her outfit would be if accented by a dapper watch. How much more gentleman-like to check that for the time instead of a phone, and she had just fished hers out of her pocket to do so when her date poked her in the back.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ziegler said facetiously from behind her. “What were you pondering so deeply?”

“A watch,” Moira began as she turned. “I would like a watch.”

Oh dear, did Ziegler fix up nice, and Moira wasn’t sure if she could even consider this “fixed up.” Her sweater and trousers had been swapped for a midlength skirt and a short cardigan over a tight, low cut undershirt that all allowed her perfect hourglass shape to be delectably visible. She hadn’t done much to her hair but tie it, showing off her jaw and the kissable skin of her neck, and her makeup was only touched up, no additional flares, nothing showy. A short set of heels ended the look and lifted her closer to Moira as if holding her up to her, begging to be looked upon, fawned over, and kissed.

“A watch… Mm, yes, I do think an accessory would be nice when you have your sleeves rolled up like this. I’m shocked you don’t have one,” she said with a smile.

“You look beautiful,” Moira blurted out, the thought too loud in her head to contain.

Ziegler’s increased smile screamed that she knew, that that was exactly what she had wanted Moira to say. “Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself.”

The tie around Moira’s throat felt awfully tight, so she slipped her thumb under it for a moment. “Thank you as well. Are you fully prepared, then? Didn’t leave your wallet or badge to scan back in?”

She rolled her eyes, and Moira felt that just a thumb wasn’t enough. “Yes, Doctor. I’m quite ‘prepared.’ How are we—”

“I’ve called a taxi,” Moira hurried. The nervousness urged her to speak, and those eyelashes and dimples made her too susceptible to its suggestions.

“Alright…”

Calm down, Moira! Here they were, heading out for their date, and here she was, already interrupting her like her words were meaningless. That wasn’t true one bit, but she felt as if this time was fleeting, and she would have to flee once the clock struck midnight, and the taxi turned into an oddly large and unassuming pumpkin. The whole glass slipper situation, while romantic and charming, wouldn’t really work, though… Who else wore such long and sharp shoes?

Ziegler stepped more quickly to keep up with her naturally long strides as she approached the curb where their driverless hover car waited. “Why are you in such a hurry? Was it something I said?”

“Ah,” she sighed, resisting ruining her own hair by running a hand through it and using the other to open the door for her. “No, not at all. I was merely thinking of the passage of time. It always feels too finite. Do you agree?”

Moira would say the look Ziegler gave her as she climbed in was full of pity, but perhaps it was… endearment? The two were oddly similar. “Oh, Doctor. The night has only just begun! And there’s always tomorrow unless you offend me much, much worse than you usually try to.” Another little joking jab. “We have plenty of time.”

Now seated next to her, she sighed again with newfound relief. “Your everlasting patience is a gift.”

As soon as they were both in and buckled safely, all Moira had to do was tap a button for it to begin its route to her predetermined destination. Her fingers drummed against the arm rest on the door as her mind reached for the many questions she had for her partner, but they eluded her. Her lab partner, she meant.

Moira grasped one, but as she turned to ask, she found Ziegler already looking at her, prepared to speak.

“I’m surprised you got a cab. I thought you would have requested one of the fleet for a personal outing. They do allow that, you know.”

Everything was always “you know” with her. Moira was guilty of it, too, of teasing about assumed intelligence. “I would rather focus on our conversation than on the road, and I wouldn’t want to rob myself of a few drinks. What better occasion, mm?”

“That’s fair,” Ziegler nodded. The way the end of that word sounded out of her mouth was almost as delightful as a kiss, or as delightful as the ones they shared in her head. She turned from her to gaze out the window, at the mountains in the dusk, and Moira was allowed to examine the dexterity with which she tied her hair. It had been a long, long time since the geneticist’s hair had enough length to do anything but slick it back, so she was impressed.

“Dr. Ziegler, may I ask you a personal question?”

The little sound she made was very much like a cat as she again made eye contact. The orange of the sky made her clear, youthful skin even more goddess-like and the blonde of her hair that much brighter.

“Who taught you how to tie your hair like that? I understand you lost your mother at a young age.” She was sickened to bring that up, but it felt necessary.

“Oh, this messy thing?” It wasn’t messy at all. “Well, my mother somewhat, but Ingrid as well. Torbjörn’s wife. She taught me quite a bit of baking as well. They did a lot for me. You know Torbjörn?”

“I know of him. I don’t know him personally.”

Ziegler waved her hand. “I’m sure you will at some point. Oh, are we here?”

Hover cars were always much faster than Moira expected, having been born in the time of tires and treadmarks and traffic. Advanced automobiles, advanced trains, and advanced transport in general had made all forms of travel much easier, much quicker, and the conversation was cut short. 

They stepped out of the car, Moira helping Ziegler out like a gentleman, and it sped away to drive its many other patrons to their many destinations. Zurich streets were gorgeous in this season, the orange and yellow leaves both here and of the mountains matching the roofs of the cityscape and the sunset’s reflection on the water. The sun was obscured slightly by rainclouds rolling in, but city dwellers paid it no mind and milled about in the cool, autumn air, spilling from various shops, restaurants, and bars. 

The city reeked of money. Every way Moira looked, men and women were dressed to the nines in designer jackets and handbags and jewelry and watches, and they had no qualms with flaunting their wealth or throwing it at the flourishing local businesses and, of course, the banks, where she was sure a good portion made their livings. How much money Overwatch had brought to the area, she wasn’t sure, for it had been this way historically. 

“The view is something I quite like about this place,” Moira said to her. They stood side by side, looking out at the river and the buildings on the opposite shore, and she wondered if the fall winds chilled her or if her larger frame saved her from the gusts.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I can hardly imagine living someplace else,” Ziegler replied, looking up at her and shuffling a little closer. That was her answer, then.

“It’s spoiled you,” she said softly, looking down at her big, sweet eyes. “Now, come. Let’s escape this wind before it blows us away.”

“Lead the way.”

Despite her bubbling excitement, Moira made more of an effort to take shorter steps so that her date was not forced to dash after her, but the taxi had dropped them close by. However, as they neared the fine establishment she had painstakingly researched and chosen, she noticed it was dark and devoid of patrons. 

“Shut? Closed?” Moira questioned incredulously, pulling out her phone to check for missed calls or emails about their reservation. Sure enough, there it was in her inbox. “‘We apologize for any inconvenience,’” she read aloud, holding her device where Ziegler could read along. “‘An emergency plumbing issue has forced us to close until further notice.’ Damn. I might call it more than an inconvenience, but…”

Ziegler hummed thoughtfully, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I would say we should try anywhere else on this street, but it’s so terribly busy…”

“And they are all reservation only.” She flipped through the restaurants now searching for availability, but there was none. Shocking. Shocking and not the least bit disappointing.

“Let’s go to one of the pubs, then.”

Moira’s brow furrowed in confusion. “A pub? You want to go to a pub?” That wasn’t what she had imagined for their night at all, nor was it what she thought Ziegler wanted. 

“Why not? They’ll have good food, and you said yourself you wanted a drink.”

She could have argued that she wanted a quiet space for deep conversation and subtle flirtation, to impress her with her knowledge of the culinary arts and etiquette, to make her blush with compliments and innuendos, but the good doctor had nothing to do with their current predicament and could not do anything to fix it. There was simply no point to whining about her ruined plans, so she agreed to pivot and let Ziegler drag her along, trying not to pout too much.

This time Moira was having to hurry to keep up with her as she darted about, looking in windows and doors before she moved along to the next one without a word. What she was looking for exactly, Moira tried to ask, but all Ziegler did was motion for her to follow until they had turned a corner, descended a dodgy set of stairs, and entered an unassuming, unmarked door.

It was so quiet inside that Moira wondered if they’d snuck in some place they were not meant to be. “Ziegler,” she hissed, grabbing at her cardigan sleeve. “Are you sure?”

She looked back at her with confusion. “About what?”

“This place. What else?”

“Yes?”

The area was devoid of other customers save for one man sitting at the bar with his back turned to them, and it was heavily decorated with barrels and kegs and old mugs and flagons along with the usual array of spirits, almost like a medieval cellar of sorts. The random pictures of football players and classic actors made no sense, but perhaps they were customers at some point, or the owner was very much a fan. American music played softly, which she found pleasant for conversation, and there were a few mounted televisions currently shut off. Despite all that, the bar tables at least looked to have comfy stools, comfier than the cracked leather seats of the booths. They didn’t do much for Moira, really, as standing beside high tables was the same for her, but the lack of people sitting in them was cause for concern.

“No one is here. Does that not lend to the quality of the establishment?”

Ziegler shook her head like Moira was stupid. “No one is here yet. Hurry, we’ll have time to chat before the rabble, as you would say, come in.”

As she would say? Oh, this girl. Together, they sat at one of the high tops in a more private corner near all the photographs, and the bartender, seemingly the only person working currently, welcomed them and handed them a couple of menus, one for drink and one for dinner.

Moira did not need to read the list of cocktails, nor did she want to see what their house specials were. She knew what she wanted, so instead, her long hands snatched up the food pamphlet while Ziegler eyed her suspiciously and took her turn to flip through the alcoholic beverages.

“What will it be, Doctor? A glass of white wine? Red?” Moira teased, as if there was anything wrong with these selections. She only wanted to get under her skin and ruffle the feathers of her absent angel wings.

“No,” she almost whined, turning her little nose up as she scanned the lines of text. “I was thinking something more like… Oh! Just like that!”

Ziegler held it out to her and pointed, but Moira only blinked at the printed word. It was all in German. Most places, if they were not old fashioned or… cheap, did not carry paper menus and instead had easily translated digital ones for accessibility. Moira found herself preferring the physical way usually, if they were legible to her. This was not.

“I, ah, cannot read that,” she admitted painfully.

“Oh, right,” Ziegler said apologetically. Moira thought she was showing off, trying to make her feel small, but perhaps it was a genuine mistake. “In English, it’s called a honey trap.”

Moira smiled at that. There was a joke somewhere in her mind about how many flies Ziegler attracted with her honey, including herself, but how terribly cute that choice was flung it far away. “I should have known,” was what she said instead.

“And what about you, then?” Ziegler asked, her elbows on the table to keep her dimpled chin propped up on her hands. Her cheeks were squished a bit, too, and the air felt too thin for Moira to make prolonged eye contact.

Before she could answer her, the bartender returned for their beverage choices. The good doctor went first and ordered her honeyed tequila with lemon and ginger, and then it was Moira’s turn to ask for a revolver. The look on her date’s face told her she wasn’t sure what it was, but that was alright. She could try it later.

Alone again, their attention turned to the food menu, and Ziegler read it out to her with her back very straight and her voice clear. “Chicken nuggets, onion rings, nachos, one, two… four kinds of fries… fish and chips, brown soda bread, Guinness p–”

“Dr. Ziegler.” Moira said very firmly. Her blue eyes flicked up to meet her own. “You’ve taken me to an Irish pub. Or a British pub, whatever they’ve taken a liking to calling it.”

Her lips parted and then pressed together again. Was she holding in a laugh? “Not intentionally.”

“Are you certain? You walked me down a flight of steps to get in here.”

“I was only looking for someplace that wasn’t covered up! It was a little out of the way, sure, but we got a table instantly, and we can hear each other! Don’t be so grumpy.”

Moira tapped her foot on the ground in her silence.

“Maybe it will be good! Would you like to try the fish and chips? I like fish.”

She didn’t, really. Moira wanted a perfectly cooked steak with the most beautiful crust of seasoning and sear paired with a terribly expensive side of creamed spinach or roasted potatoes hand-picked from the chef’s personal garden, or perhaps a soup, a stew so developed in flavor that every spoonful filled her mouth with different spices, different textures, each sip a separate experience. She wanted to see the look on Ziegler’s face when she fed her a bite of beef that was tender enough to melt in her mouth like butter, wanted to show her what good, amazing cooking tasted like, wanted her to live outside of that blasted building without having to go out on a mission. But that chance was gone and no fault of her own, so she wouldn’t throw a tantrum now. It just gave her the opportunity to make it for her herself, if this night went like she hoped it would.

“Yes,” Moira conceded. “I would like that.”

Once Ziegler set the menu down, the bartender was back, clearly watching for when they were ready. Two sets of fish and chips written down, and she was off again, leaving the two to converse.

“I thought for a moment you had been here,” Moira spoke up first. “I thought you brought me here to torture me.”

Ziegler giggled, and the butterflies were lessening her appetite by the second. “I’ve been to plenty of pubs, but not this one. I do know one where they let guests play bagpipes, though, so you better watch yourself.”

“Even the thought wounds me,” Moira joked, clutching at her chest. “Tell me, though. Why have you never left this place? There are far better pubs elsewhere.”

“You mean why do I live in Zurich?”

“Yes. You’re brilliant, if the word suffices.” And so beautiful.  “Anywhere in the world would welcome you with open arms, but you’ve stayed.” Moira declined to add on that that was not the same for her, that she was unwanted in more places than she could count.

Ziegler took no time to think before she answered. “I suppose I’ve felt needed here to an extent if you mean early life, but as for right now… Is Overwatch anywhere else? Is there another organization that can have such a widespread influence, that can do so much good for people? With Overwatch, I can go anywhere in the world and help anyone and everyone who needs me.”

She watched the fire behind her eyes and hand motions with every word. So driven, so passionate, and so… naive. The name “Mercy” was too fitting for her. Moira wanted to bring this up to her, to tell her that while she thought she was using Overwatch to help people and thought that its founders shared her views on world peace and whatever else she was after, they were using her. This military organization’s aim was not a fairytale-like utopia, and each and every member wanted something different for it, from it, for her, from her. Part of her wanted to let her learn. The other, much louder part wanted to save her from it, to help her achieve her true potential.

Moira supposed there was also the possibility that she knew, but to her, that was unlikely. Her smile was too bright, and her tired eyes were too earnest.

“Does that make sense?” Ziegler asked. 

She hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for her. “It does. Is that the only reason you are so attached to Overwatch?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m sure you understand that…”

Her words tapered off as their drinks slid onto the shiny wooden table top, causing Moira to raise an eyebrow at the barkeep, but she paid no mind. She just kept moving to other tables as folks drifted in. 

“Oh!” Ziegler exclaimed in delight and lifted hers. Moira’s heart did a flip she hadn’t thought it was capable of for years. “How cute!”

There was nothing about it that struck her as adorable, as it seemed to her exactly average: a bright yellow mixed drink with a sugar, or salt, she hadn’t the courage to lick it herself, rim topped with a summer umbrella. How out of season. Moira’s tall glass felt much more in tune with the surroundings both in and outside the pub, being a colorful brown and garnished with a bit of orange peel.

She held her glass by its skinny stem up to Ziegler. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

With a gentle clink, they blessed their beverages and began to imbibe, the first sip alighting her senses and warming her esophagus as the heat flowed down. Such a pleasant, calming taste it was: the boldness of bourbon, the depth and familiarity of coffee, the pop of citrus. She sighed in content and only then realized how closely Ziegler was watching her.

“Yes? Is yours quite alright?” Moira asked, suddenly feeling the need to make sure her hair was still in proper shape.

Her dining partner readjusted in her seat. “Mm, yes. I was just wondering the same for yours. I’ve never had a revolver,” she said, enunciating each syllable in a funny mockery of Moira’s accent.

Moira laughed, one sharp, short sound at Ziegler’s attempt to to mimic her speech and pushed her drink across the tabletop. “Then find out for yourself, Ziegler.”

“Angela,” Ziegler corrected, her dainty fingers pinching the stem as she lifted it to her lips, watching Moira through her thick eyelashes. “Call me Angela.”

The room suddenly lacked air like someone had opened a secret door to the vast vacuum of space, or maybe it was that her lungs simply stopped functioning while her heart kicked into overdrive, pumping and throbbing ten, fifteen times too quickly.

“Angela,” Moira whispered as well as she could.

Angela smiled over the rim of the glass, soft and pretty, and placed her mouth exactly over Moira’s own lip marks. Moira only sat there and stared at her tilting her glass, warmth blooming far too low in her stomach for it to be the alcohol.

The angel’s eyes narrowed as she set it back down, and her lips tugged down into a cute little frown with her bunny nose scrunched up, pulling Moira out of her stupor as she slid it back to her.

“No?” Moira asked with amusement.

“No,” Angela said, shaking her head. “Too harsh. I don’t know how you drink such things. Would you like to try mine?”

“Bourbon is an acquired taste,” she stated pleasantly and shook her head, trying desperately to feel the heat of Angela’s hand on the glass. It hadn’t faded just yet.

“Like you, Dr. O’Deorain?” 

Moira smirked. What a sassy little thing she was. “Like me, yes,” she purred. “And please, use my given name.”

A hum from the good doctor and their prolonged eye contact made her thighs twitch. Angela was spinning her glass on the table horribly slowly, allowing it to glide along the wet ring of condensation beneath it, until she lifted it for a little lick at the rim. It was a very good thing Moira was excellent at maintaining her uncaring outer shell. “What was it you asked me, Moira? Something about Overwatch?”

How long had it been since she blinked? “I asked if the opportunity to travel and help those in need worldwide was the only reason for your staying with our great overseers.”

“Mm,” Angela nodded, recalling where she left off. “Of course not. Overwatch gives me incredible access to the resources I need to continue my research as well as giving me the platform to implement it worldwide. When I finally reach that stage, I mean, or when Overwatch does. Maybe. It’s hard to say when, but I’m willing to wait if I have to, as long as it takes.”

Moira knew all this, knew before she had even thought to ask, for she watched Angela work tirelessly towards her dream whenever she had a spare moment. She had read all her papers to the point of understanding her inner thoughts and desires without ever having this conversation, but never before had she truly had the chance to ask or share her own. Something about the lab was too tense, had her too on edge to divulge that she, too, looked to the stars and dreamt of saving the world in her own way. Perhaps it was the secrecy. Perhaps it was the endless spat over the rabbits.

“And you truly believe Overwatch is what will spread your nanobiotics across the world? To help the weary, heal the sick, lead the blind to see?”

“So you know then,” Angela said with a contemplative smile. “I’ve seen you reading my work, but I’ve never written it explicitly.”

Moira took another sip of her liquid courage. “Anyone who knows you even the slightest sliver of a bit would understand that you want universal healthcare, or they should.” Angela opened her mouth, but Moira raised her hand. “Healthcare that is both quality and easily accessed.”

Angela leaned closer to her. “It would be instant. No one would ever die waiting their turn, no matter their status. It shouldn’t just be for us here, for our agents. It should be for you, me, your mother, my mother, that man over there, starving children on the other side of the world, enemy soldiers even. Anyone.”

It certainly would have helped her mother, not that Angela knew anything about that. “I understand. It all feels archaic, does it not? We have created sentient minds in the field of robotics, but we have yet to overcome needless death and disease, the bounds of our own flesh and blood. I would like to take humanity beyond that, of which I know we’re capable.”

The calculation and analysis in Angela’s eyes made her want to readjust in her seat repeatedly, but she would not budge. “I should say I know about you, too. How you lost your prior position after a questionable paper and disappeared for some time. I haven’t been altogether happy about your employment in Blackwatch, but it wasn’t my call.”

There was a tense silence between them then, or at least Moira imagined one. Burdened with the gap in her speech, she couldn’t restrain her ever questioning tongue. “Then why did you come?”

Ah, a coy little smile. She had wanted her to ask. “Because I want to know more about you, Moira. I want to know why you’re the way you are: frustrating and horribly intelligent, arrogant and uppity, yet… attentive and caring in your own awful way.” She took a deep breath. “And I like to think this is your way of changing for the better. Blackwatch, that is.”

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. She didn’t think like that. “So it wasn’t for my dashing good looks and quick wit? And here I thought I had seduced you.”

Angela hummed, her pink tongue darting out to lick her lips. “Maybe for your sarcastic charm.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and the pressure of a possible heart attack over a beautiful girl was enough to stop her flirtatious joking. “If I had to describe myself in one word, it would be ‘curious.’ I am endlessly curious of all things, and I am not keen on stopping until I have gained the knowledge I seek,” Moira said. Her right hand lit with a strange itch she could not scratch. “Now, though, I often find myself wondering who this woman is without her wings or white coat, without her patients and friends to worry over. I know her goals, her professional passions, but when she finds herself in a brief moment of reprieve, I wonder what she does with herself. When she lay in bed at night, what does she think of? What does she desire?” Better yet, who?

She looked away from her, and Moira swore there was a faint blush on her perfectly shaped cheeks. “It’s very like you to talk about me in the third person while I’m right in front of you.”

Excited to have the upper hand, she rapidly tapped one of her long loafers on the floor. “Oh? And what am I like?”

“Weird,” Angela replied instantly. Moira saw now she was still smiling. “And I think I like it almost as much as I dislike you.”

The sole worker of the odd little pub had the most perfect timing of any individual Moira had ever had the pleasure of encountering, and she grinned a grin much too big at her for the small task of delivering their food. Two steaming plates were placed down in front of them, and Moira carefully examined the large pieces of fried cod, poking and prodding to ensure the batter was properly crispy and crunchy. She was relieved to find that they had warmed their cooking oil to the proper temperature, and the chips had come out well, too. Whether the seasoning was sufficient, she had yet to discover, but the lack of malt vinegar or curry sauce was disappointing.

“What’s wrong?” Angela asked, blowing on a chip.

Sucking in a breath through her teeth, Moira failed to withhold her criticism. “It lacks vinegar or curry sauce. How am I meant to eat this… dry?”

Moira watched her nibble on an end impatiently. “Like this.”

She scoffed. “You don’t understand, Angela. You’ve never been to a chipper.”

“Who says I haven’t?”

“Have you?”

“No, but you shouldn’t assume things about everyone you meet. You’re an elitist.”

“And yet I was right. Do you not also believe you are the most intelligent person in the room? Smarter than me, even?”

Angela was smirking at her, the most frustrated, lopsided smirk she had ever seen on that pretty face with an odd little look in her doe eyes. They almost looked dark in the low light of the pub, but still, they bore into her, unblinking and intense. She stared back, wishing for the door to the cold to fling open if for but a moment. “Fine, then. Tell me all about your ‘chipper.’”

So she did. Moira launched into a long tirade about the brown paper bag, the grease that coated one’s fingers, the fish and chips salted to the other side of the moon and back, just how she liked it, the malt vinegar, the yellow curry which she always hoped leaned heavily on the ginger but often left the taste of metal in one’s mouth, the layout of her childhood favorite store, her teen years, and the one near her university where she ate far too often as a student with little time.

Angela listened intently as she shared far too much, far more than she intended to, but she was not bored. In fact, she even prompted her to tell her more, asking for little bits about her upbringing and her hometown, what her education was like, their cultural differences, but as they discussed, larger parties began to pour in, sounding a cacophony of conversations to surround them. Moira had to raise her voice with every word to be heard, wondering what fresh hell unleashed this crowd upon them.

Surrounded by others or not, her date soaked up her every word and replied with genuine interest and insight. Now, it was her turn to share, and oh, how Moira wanted to hear, wanted to learn all there was to know about her, but it was simply much too loud. Instead, she swirled her cocktail glass if only to busy her hand, watching Angela’s mouth move as she spoke, the shape of her cupid’s bow and the curled corners of her pretty lips. Her thumb longed to brush over them and feel their softness; her fingers ached to rub against her cheek and pristine skin and her faint, blonde, girlish peach fuzz. Oh, how precious her dimples were when she smiled, how beautiful was the angle of her eyes, her long lashes, her dark eyebrows, the color, albeit difficult to see in this moment, of her irises. The scoop of her nose, the cleft of her chin, her cheekbones, her jawline, her small mole she often did not notice. Even the spike of her bangs was absolutely perfect and gorgeous, and Moira thought that even if she had been able to understand her, her sense of hearing would be completely and totally overwhelmed by the bewitching beauty in her line of sight. And to think, out of everyone, she was here sitting and speaking and sharing a drink with her!

“I mean, the nerve of some people! Tell me I’m not insane for thinking so, Doctor.” Angela said a bit louder than she was previously with an annoyed flick of her wrist before quickly correcting herself. “Moira.”

The geneticist chuckled as she took a sip of fiery, bitter citrus. “I would love to, but I have absolutely no idea what you’ve just said.”

Angela rolled her eyes, but she laughed, such a joyous sound that made her heart flip three times before she, too, had to giggle. Moira wasn’t ever one to do such things.

“You were right about the rabble,” Moira nearly shouted. “They really came out of the woodwork, mm?”

She replied with something, but Moira couldn’t hear.

“What?”

“I said that we can go, if you would like. It looks like you liked your food well enough anyway,” she said, voice raised.

Moira glanced down at her plate, which was nearly clean save for a few chips. She had no recollection of picking up all those bites, chewing, or swallowing them, but she supposed she had done so absentmindedly out of hunger, too enthralled by the angelic countenance before her to do anything but mindlessly eat and drink, as both their glasses were empty as well. Angela ate less than her, but it was a sizable portion, and she was a much smaller person.

“Yes,” she agreed and spent the next five or ten minutes desperately trying to get the attention of the swarmed bartender busy with patrons trying to order this drink or that appetizer or another dreadful plate of desiccated fish and potatoes. Eventually, she made her way over with a small tablet, looked back and forth between them, and then asked the dreaded question.

“One check or two?”

“Two,” Angela said cheerfully.

Moira was quick to correct her. “One.” Angela gave her a terrible look, but her smile stayed. So cordial. “Please, I insist.”

“Fine, one.”

Their server gave her gratitude and rushed off again, leaving them alone to pay, and Moira wondered just where any of her help could have been. Surely she couldn’t have been the only one to work at this fine establishment, but, ah, Angela was staring at her with that evil look still in her eyes, waiting for an explanation.

“Moira, really?”

With the greatest puppy eyes she could muster, Moira leaned in. “I can’t afford this, Angela.”

Her entire face dropped, but Moira couldn’t keep it up and laughed heartily in her terrible, sharp way. Angela blushed and looked awfully shocked as her mouth fell open, realizing she’d been played for a fool, but her cute dimples were showing. Her little joke was a success after all, and Moira happily footed the bill for them both, tapping her phone for payment and signing her wages away. With her receipt in her email inbox, she helped her date out of her tall stool, and they made to escape from the roaring laughter of a much too large group at the bar.

Her dominant arm, always much more useful than the dull right, yearned to wrap around the good doctor’s waist as they stepped into the chilly evening air, but dinner and a drink were nowhere near enough to earn the right to shield her from the cold without permission.

“That was fun,” Angela said with a pleasant sigh. 

A harsh wind blew against them, messing up her carefully slicked back cowlick. “Mm, part of it was, even if it wasn’t exactly to plan.”

“Part of it?” Angela squinted up at her through the cutting air.

“You could make most any venue fun, yes, no matter what gruel they serve.”

The squint gained a twinkle, and Moira thought that her own cheeks had never hurt from smiling so much.

It was then that the gust transformed, and droplets of rain hardened by their velocity began to pelt them from the east. Moira did her best to provide cover for her companion from afar as they walked a little ways seeking an awning or other such protection, but it came down harder and faster as the wind whistled wildly.

“Should I call the cab?” Moira called to her among the other city goers fleeing the sudden bad weather.

“No,” Angela shouted, tugging at her sleeve. It kept her warm within this whirling storm. “I don’t want to go home yet.”

“Then what shall we do? I don’t want you to get too wet.” Well, sort of.

The good doctor shielded her eyes as she looked up at her again, clearly about to ask her something, but instead, she grabbed her wrist, and within a few minutes, they were sitting at another bar, sipping drinks far warmer than before. 

“I’ve never thought to spike hot cocoa,” Moira said before a sip that sizzled in her stomach in the best way. The smooth chocolate made smoother still by a dark rum with gooey little marshmallows was delightful with her damp clothes and dripping ends to her hair, now failing to hold its shape.

Angela kicked hers back with both hands, almost like a child. Not that Moira saw her that way, but she was enjoying this quite a bit. “Oh, I have, and I’ve done it plenty. Ugh, this is just yummy, isn’t it?”

Moira couldn’t stop herself from staring at her frothy mustache of cream. To think, this woman had saved countless lives, and they were all thankful to her and yet would never see this precious side so hidden in her duty. “That is not a word in my lexicon, really, but it’s grand. You have a little something there,” she stated gently, pointing as directly as she could with a long finger.

She wiped at her mouth, but a remnant remained unfound. “Did I get it?”

The geneticist had hardly shaken her head and pointed again before Angela was leaning closer to her touch, and her own hand took initiative as if it had a mind of its own. Tentatively, cautiously, so carefully, she brushed her thumb against her upper lip while those blue eyes watched her, wanting, asking, knowing, and she almost shivered from their stare and the suspected softness of her cupid’s bow. Then her milky mistake was gone, and the moment faded into a fiery memory of a few seconds ago, a minute, two, ten. Still, it stayed in her mind, and the fingers of her right hand burned something terrible.

To make matters worse, Angela seemed to be getting closer to her with every sip and suggestion. Moira told herself not to think anything of it, that it was for the loud music playing on the other end of the bar, where dancers of mixed ages and varying skill took the floor and made even more of a ruckus, but she found her body scooting to the edge of her seat, chasing the scent of summery peaches. She wasn’t sure how she hadn’t noticed it in the car, but it was as intoxicating as the scent of a blooming flower to a buzzing bumblebee. 

“Do you like to dance?” Angela asked suddenly. Her cheeks had gotten so rosy. 

Moira blinked. “Pardon?”

She covered her mouth as she giggled. “I asked if you like to dance.”

“I do,” Moira said and finished off her cocoa, standing from her bar stool with ease and extending a hand to her date. “Shall we?”

Angela took it, her warm fingers clasping over Moira’s much larger palm. “And here I thought I would have to convince you.”

“A single word from you is all the convincing I need.”

Sweaty bodies surrounded them on the floor, squirming and wiggling and moving to and fro both on and off the beat, but neither of them truly minded. Such was the nature of downtown bars, and Moira had taken many a trip to far dodgier dives where one had to duck to avoid getting punched by the incongruous jerking of fellow partiers. Those days were long behind her now.

That did not mean that Moira had forgotten how to throw her body around. Arms flying, spinning, spreading wide, she worked the floor the only way she knew, just looking around a few times to make sure her long limbs wouldn’t collide with any nearby faces. Angela was clapping, swaying her hips, doing some fancy footwork, and grinning at her like she never had before. 

“What are you doing?” asked Angela over the drums. 

“Dancing. What else?”

All she replied with was a laugh, and they continued wriggling like worms in hot ashes as the music grew louder, something electronic with a man’s voice speaking words Moira could not understand. The mass of people vibrating like molecules was hot and slightly cramped, the scent of alcohol mixing with perfume, cologne, and sweat to create a headache inducing gas, and men repeatedly gawked at her partner, drawn like moths to a flame waiting for their respective turns to burn their wings to ash, which she would gladly assist with if it came to that. Under normal circumstances, Moira would have been annoyed, irritated, and cranky at her age, done and through with youthful, or foolish for someone of her maturity level, activities and men in general, but the girl in front of her made her feel like she had hardly lived thirty years, let alone forty. Her skull was flooded with dopamine, her hair was wild and sticking every which way, and her heart throbbed from both the exertion and an odd happy feeling she was unwilling to label.

Her breathing labored, Moira extended her hand to Angela, and she clasped it with her own instantly. They were two magnets of opposite poles after all, and while Moira thought the touch may have overwhelmed her, it felt so right. She felt so right, her palm, her rhythm, her entire body. Her. The pair spun, the pair twisted, the pair twirled and swirled until Moira was dipping her and lifting her back up again in but a blink, delighting in the further laughter it elicited. Moira wasn’t incredibly physically strong, but she knew how to lead, and shockingly, Angela, stubborn, headstrong Angela let her. 

Eventually, their bodies grew tired, their feet grew sore, and they retreated back to the counter where their mugs had been cleared and put away. Moira thought about another drink to moisten her mouth and wet her throat, but before she could ask for a barbed whiskey, Angela ordered two waters and threw some cash on the counter for the both of them. Simple enough. She needn’t get absolutely scuttered anyhow and embarrass herself, and she neglected to complain about Angela’s paying for the same reason.

Neither of them were doing much speaking, but a good amount of glancing passed between them. Strands of gold had fallen onto Angela’s forehead, cheeks, and around her ears, and her chest visibly rose and fell. Moira tried not to stare too much, but her eyes landed there anyhow before the fluttering of her long lashes pulled them back up. 

“It’s stifling in here,” Moira whispered to her eventually. “Sudorific.”

Angela smiled over the lip of her glass. “I take it it’s been a while since you’ve gone dancing.”

“I can hardly tell you the last time I went out,” she confirmed, trying to slick back her hair again. She must have been a mess.

“Me neither,” the good doctor shook her head. “I spend most nights in. Well, not really in, I mean more of…”

“Work. You have dedicated yourself to your work.” Moira did the same. She had for years and years now, even when ostracized and shunned for that blasted paper. A brilliant paper that she poured her heart and soul into for the good and betterment of mankind. It had only made her work even harder.

Angela set her glass down and turned to look at her directly. Her eyes held an odd quality that Moira struggled to place. Affection? Contemplation? Curiosity? Reflection? “Yes,” Angela agreed.

Understanding, Moira decided. Angela understood her. Angela understood that Moira understood her.

“Fancy a walk, Doctor?” Moira asked, adopting a teasing tone and extending the crook of her arm to her.

“Sure,” she agreed and slotted her own with it, fitting against her as well as matching puzzle pieces. 

Outside, the wind had let up, and the downpour had faded to a drowsy drizzle. Still, Moira had no desire to drench her date from head to toe either now or during their return to base, so she snatched an umbrella leaning by the entrance and lifted it over their heads as they exited into the wet night air.

“Moira, did you just steal that?!” Angela asked, shocked and taken aback. Her little hands bunched up on her sleeve.

Moira hummed. “I will discard it on the street when we take our leave. The owner will be too drunk to remember where they left it in the first place.”

“And what if they slip in a puddle and crack their skull open?”

She shouldn’t have been smirking, but any time Angela was just so Angela, smugness overtook her like a wildly infectious disease. “Then that would be a shame.”

Angela scoffed, but she leaned into her, perhaps trying to steal a bit of warmth. The brisk autumn cold had ripped it away from them both, and the leftover sweat on her back had her almost shivering herself. “I suppose it’s my fault for failing to bring an umbrella. I’ve enabled you.”

Water pelted the nylon shelter above their crowns and muffled her chuckle. “You aren’t responsible for my actions, Angela.”

The side of her head was pressing against her upper arm now, but she could not feel the slight tickle of her hair through her sleeve as she wished. “I am, in a way. I allowed it.”

A deep inhale through her nose sucked the cold right into her lungs. Angela was somewhat right, that she did nothing to keep her from thievery when she very well could have demanded she return it or take it back herself, apologizing profusely, but it didn’t erase the deed in the first place. She also would not have taken the blame for it had it come to that, even if she accepted it. This was the way she viewed the world, though: wrongdoing was her problem, as were the pain and suffering of all those around her. It was up to her to stop it, to fix things, to mend and heal every bruise and black eye and broken bone. Moira thought it was admirably wrong, but at the same time, she, too, felt responsible for humanity’s stagnation, for she knew of that lock, had looked into its keyhole and peeked out onto the other side. She only had to find the key or, better yet, make one.

“I know,” Moira told her gently, and a gust of wind stole the debate away like a lost kite or paper plane.

It was a beautiful walk at that time of night. The sky was nearly entirely dark, but off over the mountains, a storm cloud crackled and sparked with the promise of a lightning storm before the next work day had begun. On the ground, it was a different story. Warm street lamps burned brightly overhead, and the lights within stores and shops and restaurants spilled out onto the sidewalk, reflecting off the pooling rainwater which soaked both the stone and fallen leaves underfoot in a dazzling array of seasonal romance. The river, too, mirrored the city, dotted with boats like ducks floating along, and while it was almost too beautiful to be real, it paled in comparison to the woman beside her, so much so that it was difficult for Moira to keep her eyes on anything else. She had to, though, lest they slip and fall and crack their skulls to paint the road with blood, just as Angela feared.

“Do you see those boats?” Moira beckoned to the water.

Angela hummed, head still against her shoulder. “The river cruises? They’re lovely. I’ve always loved to watch them swim by.”

“Swim?” Moira tucked her chin to look down at her fondly. “Like they’re swans? How quaint. Have you ever been on one?”

She shook her head. Moira couldn’t take it anymore and put her arm around her, allowing her to burrow into her side and huddle for warmth. She wondered if she could hear her heart hammering on the other side of her broad chest.

“I’ll take you one day, then. You have my word.”

“Oh, really?” Angela asked excitedly, perking up enough to pull away from her slightly and look into her eyes. “When?”

Furrowing her brow, she pretended to deeply contemplate this question as if planning another date was as easy as checking her schedule. “Hm. I may have to consult with the wardens on when you are next being let out of your cage, unless you know…?”

That stopped her in her tracks and sent her into a fit of smiley giggles, which translated directly to the feeling of warm fuzz in Moira’s organs. How strange it was to make her beam and laugh with her comments instead of the usual grumble, groan, and hiss, and it was stranger still that Angela was so affectionate with her, one hand still clutching her sleeve. She hoped it wasn’t the alcohol. 

“That one, I don’t know. My schedule is very unpredictable.”

The orange light of the street lamps danced in her ocean blue eyes that looked up at her so sweetly, so gently, devoid of the sharp edge she was so used to and attracted to. The flame it sparked in her was no less, but it burned so much higher in her tall frame than its usual hearth in her core. 

“Stop letting them walk all over you,” she whispered.

“I give my time to them willingly,” Angela said in the same hushed tone. The distance between them had shortened considerably, but her eyes kept darting down. Down and back up, then quickly down and up again.

Moira’s voice was even quieter, but she got closer to make sure she could be heard. “Precisely my point. You give and forget your entire self.”

Angela did not say anything. She only stared up at her like she was the moon, attempting to discern what shape the pattern of her craters made to her, or maybe she was the entire night sky, and each and every one of her freckles a distant star waiting to be charted. They twinkled in her pupils, large from the darkness or from love, but then her eyes fluttered shut, and Moira’s lips were upon hers.

Gentle was the first kiss, soft, thin lips pressing against an even softer, plumper pair, but as soon as her senses were overwhelmed with a ripening orchard of pink and orange peaches, with chocolate and smooth liquor and the slightest hint of salty sweat, the next held much more fervor, and her free hand grabbed at Angela’s waist while the angel pressed her own hips against her, her back arching her front ever closer. Oh, how eagerly the precious saint reciprocated her attention, how enthusiastically her mouth opened for her and pushed back against her. She wanted to kiss her harder, faster, to taste every little bit of her sweet mouth, feel every side of her wet tongue, but this was much too fast, too soon, especially on a random Zurich street. Forcing herself to hold back, the third kiss slowed considerably and faded back into attentive tenderness, that same hand spreading across her lower back to embrace her.

Angela’s hands rested on her broad shoulders, a few fingers fiddling with her collar and tie. Something about the way she looked at her and kept easing up and down on her tiptoes made it very clear she had no intentions of stopping.

“Shall I call the cab?” Moira murmured. Her lips felt numb; her tongue felt stupid speaking after that, keen on doing one thing and one thing only.

“Mm,” hummed Angela, nodding slightly while one of her hands drifted up to hold her sharp jaw and gaunt cheek, trying to pull her down into another, likely messier melding of their mouths.

She allowed a few kisses, but they were nothing more than chaste. A chuckle escaped her when Angela whined as she nearly tugged herself away to input the mobile command for their automatic driver, expecting something more akin to her usual sassy scoff. Once that was done, though, her long arm was right back around her. Would it have been alright to kiss her forehead, Moira wondered, or was that somehow more intimate than clashing their teeth together?

Angela rubbed the tip of her cute little nose against the stark point of her own, lifting herself on her tiptoes to do so, and cooed so softly to her that Moira melted entirely. “You’re so handsome it almost hurts,” she said sweetly, like it was not a stab deep in Moira’s chest. “So beautiful. I keep thinking about how strange it is.”

“Strange?” Moira whispered, all strangled and the like. Angela was looking at her that way again, eyes so full of awe and longing and curiosity, and oh, it did hurt. It hurt in that terribly pleasant way that made one ache for more, in that confusing, odd, happy way, and her usual quick wit was tripping and falling and failing her in her time of need. Maybe things weren’t so onesided after all.

“It’s strange how you can be the most infuriating person in the world to me in one breath and the most captivating in the next.”

Moira wanted to tell her it was the same for her, though she had far more patience for Angela, neverending patience for Angela. She wanted to tell her it was strange because everything was so right, that it was strange because feelings like this only happen once in a lifetime. She wanted to tell her that never before had someone been so perfect, so intelligent, so beautiful, so kind, so caring, so stubborn. Never before had someone made Moira feel stupid. She wanted to tell her that that was alright because it made it all make sense. It made her lonely childhood worth it, her lonely adolescence, her lonely adulthood, that paper that landed her only a painful punishment, her exile, her floundering, all of her loss. All of Angela’s, too, her birth to such adoring parents who instilled such righteousness in her and how they had been so cruelly ripped away, further cementing the beacon of light she had become. Every single moment had led them both right here, all the way back to the beginning of Moira, to the chromosomes aligning at the metaphase plate, to crossing over and mixing and separating to at some point in time become her, to being born and loved and called Moira by her poor, innocent mother who knew nothing of her baby’s sweetheart yet to be conceived. Every little bit was so she could look into this angel’s sweet blue eyes and be told she was weird, annoying, handsome, beautiful, and strange in her saccharine Swiss accent. 

And so, with the rain still coming down and the fall leaves floating to the ground around them, her nose still inhaling some sort of stone fruit heaven, she told her something far easier but similarly damning.

“I love you.”

The lovely smile on Angela’s face fell away, replaced by an image of pure shock as her eyes went wide and colder than the night, and she jerked her body away, away from Moira’s clutches and the dry safety of the pilfered umbrella. Moira, too, was staring at her in disbelief of her own actions, but it was too late now. The heavy words had already tumbled out of her stupid, careless mouth, and to go back on it would be utterly spineless. She would rather say it two times, three, ten times over, shout to the heavens and hell, too, just for good measure, but she had to almost shake her head at herself to remove the urge’s grip.

“Where are you going?” Moira called, extending the umbrella out over her with care. Angela just kept backing away, looking more and more disgusted as Moira flushed two, three, four shades darker. She felt the need to clear her throat, blocked by a great big lump of pure and total embarrassment.

“I thought this was different, but no. You don’t love me. You just want to take me to bed.”

“I do not!” Moira barked. Angela scowled and turned around, walking away from her entirely, but Moira only chased her, keeping the umbrella over her as best as she could. “I must admit, it’s possible that thought has crossed my mind, but it isn’t only that, Angela.” She loved her. Oh, she did. She didn’t want to, but she did, but she didn’t. She loved her, and she saw it in Angela’s eyes, too, felt it on her lips. “And were you not just trying to shove your tongue in my mouth?”

She spun on her heels and pointed an accusatory finger into her face. It almost made her flinch. “Yes, but that was before you tried to manipulate me with… with your lies!”

How curious her little stutter was. “So you have no qualms with casual sex but take issue if there are feelings behind it. Is that it? I have told no lies.”

Again, she stormed off, or tried to, as Moira stayed right behind her. “Where are you going?” Moira repeated herself. What a frustrating girl.

“To find another cab!”

“That is entirely unnecessary, and you know it. Stop and speak with me before you end up soaked to the bone.”

Two sets of hurried footsteps, one with much shorter strides, silenced themselves before she could say another word, so she just stood there with her arm extended. It was much, much colder with her hair and shirt so damp, but she breathed harder still, waiting for the young woman of her affections to say something. 

She did not. Only the rain continued to fall, filling the awkward void between them with hundreds of tiny droplets splashing into the ground, onto the umbrella, onto her head and shoulders.

“Is it really so hard to believe? Or do I repulse you so? I was informed recently that I am captivating, so you can imagine my confusion.”

Angela sighed so heavily that her shoulders shook in the light of a street lamp. “No, Moira. You just don’t… You don’t love me. You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t I? What don’t I know? I know you professionally, how passionate and driven and personal you are. I know what you like to eat. I’m certain I could cook for you every night and have you happy and fed.”

She turned around again, brows knit and lips pulled taut and eyes wary, but still, Angela said not a word.

“I know how you take your coffee, how much you love squirrels of all things. I know now that you like to bake,” she said gently. Water had started to collect on her eyelashes now, so she paused to wipe it away. “I know you’re patient until you simply aren’t, and that I take you there with haste, to say the least. I know how hard you push yourself, and I know why.” She didn’t want to explicitly mention her parents’ deaths, so Moira hoped that would suffice. “I know you better than most, and I know you know this.”

“That’s not enough,” Angela whispered.

Moira chanced a step closer. “Then why won’t you let me learn? How could I know when you haven’t given me the opportunity?”

She searched her eyes for what her dear Dr. Ziegler could possibly be thinking as they stood there with another void passing between them. Her pupils were darting back and forth between her own, a storm of deep contemplation behind them, a hurricane of calculations, and surely, a realization of her hypocrisy. This entire night she had looked and spoken to her as if she knew Moira would understand, that she did understand, and only now when confronted with it, did she cut and run. What was she so afraid of?

At that very moment, their automated car pulled up to the curb beside them. Moira felt lucky it had not rained long enough to form a large enough puddle to splash all over the sidewalk and their legs.

“The car is here,” she said.

Angela took a deep breath. “It is.”

Moira opened the door for her, which proved difficult with her dedication to keeping her date dry, but Angela climbed in quickly enough without a word of gratitude. Moira soon followed, and there, on the wet ground, lay the lonely, stolen umbrella waiting to be found.

Its engine rumbling quietly, the automobile pulled away from its parking spot and sped down the leaf littered lane as they began their journey back to their shared home. It was eerily quiet, excepting the sound of water churned up by its turning wheels, and every glance Moira made at her coworker found her in the same position: gazing out the window at the city passing by with her chin in her hand, never even turning to look at her. She wanted to speak more, to ask endless questions, to understand her trepidation and fear, but–

“I have other things to focus on, and so do you,” Angela spoke suddenly.

Moira blinked. “Yes, I know.”

More silence, but Angela’s right hand was clutching at her skirt.

She continued. “I am often right there with you. I think only I could understand your research and your dedication in the field.”

Her fist balled up even more. “That doesn’t bother you? That I could put other things first?”

Maybe it could, but for now, she was mostly the same. “No. Have you only ever dated casually, Angela? Has someone hurt you or demanded too much of your time?”

She huffed, still looking away. “Are you asking if I lack romantic experience? I’ve dated. Of course I’ve dated, but it was never like this. I got bored before you could call it ‘serious’ and just wanted to go back into the clinic or to my desk.”

Moira, too, had experienced fruitless romantic endeavors in her youth, but one phrase stuck out to her. “‘Like this?’”

Her body tensed even more, perhaps sensing she had said something she hadn’t intended to, and oh, how Moira wanted to lean over and comfort her with a warm hand rubbing over the small of her back to show her it was alright.

But Angela ignored that question and spilled what she had held back. “So what if one day, it does bother you? What if one day you get sick of me? Or if I get sick of you, and every day we have to sit side by side in our stupid lab, and I have to try not to feel sick when you’re petting one of your poor rabbits, sicker than I already do? What then, Moira?”

Ah. Moira finally understood. It wasn’t love she was afraid of, no. It was loss. That was why she was fine with it being “casual,” if that’s what it ever was; if she had nothing in the first place but a bit of fun with Moira on the side, there was nothing to lose, nothing to miss. It made complete sense when she considered her background, for her parents’ love had ultimately earned them only a simultaneous death, which was romantic in its own way but horribly tragic to the one most affected by it. That did not mean their love meant nothing, though. Their child lived on with their morals and ideals, and they had still loved each other very much while they lived. Moira assumed so, at least. Such was the way of all great lovers.

“You’re afraid of the pain left behind when someone leaves one way or another. I see.”

“Oh, don’t psychoanalyze me,” Angela snarled with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

“But you are.”

Finally, she looked at her, and oh, the cold blue flare in her eyes pierced far beyond Moira’s brain. “And? It hurts, doesn’t it? Why would I want to feel that way if I can avoid it entirely? Why distract myself with a relationship that’s just going to end when I could spend my time on something more lasting for everyone involved?”

They were off the streets of city lights and shops now, and Angela’s fiercely beautiful visage was framed by both the darkness in the window behind her and the shadows in front. It almost threatened to swallow her up, all that dark, but her fiery brightness burned on like the final ember in a campfire left to die, covered in one or two kicks worth of sand, but that was never enough to keep it from rising and burning an entire wood.

Moira was one of those forests that could never keep from a frighteningly devastating fire. “Do you really think that pairings that end become meaningless? You think love disappears when it is no longer felt by the living or the dead?”

She glared at her. “And what, you think it lasts forever?” 

“Why not? Better to have loved and lost, no?”

A heavy but short breath fell from her pretty mouth. “You would be a romantic. You say these things, but I don’t see you jumping into every relationship you can find. You seem like you’ve been single for thirty years.”

Unkind. “I have been in a relationship since I was ten, I can assure you. I believe in love, yes, but I don’t throw myself at every woman I come across. Rarely is anyone worth my time.”

Angela had no answer for that. She only crossed her arms and looked out the window again into the great black expanse of nothingness, surely only staring into her own thoughts, considering. They must have been nearing the base.

“Tell me. The great poets of old, do you believe the love they wrote about is lesser because they no longer live to feel it? Are their pieces now rendered moot that they lie in their graves? Does Shakespeare’s love not still live in his very sonnet, still fairer and more temperate, more eternal than a summer’s day? What of Browning’s love, that she hoped God would allow her to continue growing even after her death? That’s only to name two out of countless others that you may know. Is your heart unmoved by such things?”

The good doctor turned to say something, but Moira wasn’t done, no. Her bark was burning now, her orange leaves may as well have been up in flames, and it was difficult to stop her tongue when it had started. 

“What of your mother and father, then? Did their love end when they drew their final breaths? Or does it continue on with you in that pacifist, permanently bleeding heart of yours?”

With an almost sentient abruptness, the car stopped right at the entrance of their homiest of homes, automatically unlocking the doors as if to tell Moira to give up and get out, but she refused. She would stare into those stabbing, scorching, hurting blue eyes until her own burned out of her sockets, until Angela had listened to her words and eased open the steel door to her sealed heart.

Angela adjusted her cardigan and opened the car door on her side, causing Moira to stumble on her long legs as she rushed out to help her, but she had already stepped out by the time she reached her and unceremoniously shut the door. Moira was just about to do that for her, but all she could do now was look down at her. Her hair had become slightly frizzy from the rain, and her cheeks were still just as rosy, although it was no longer the result of an inebriated dance or warm kiss. Even like this, tired and distant and possibly very angry with her, she was beautiful. Painstakingly beautiful.

Before Moira could make use of her blunt tongue again, Angela’s short heels clicked and clacked against the cold stone floor, sounding each and every sad, downtrodden beat of Moira’s aching heart as she walked towards the entry doors and away from her. Had she not just been whining for more of Moira’s touch? Pulling her down into kisses, pressing her body into hers, whispering sweet, sweet words she had only imagined previously? How had the night shifted so quickly?

Your fault, a hateful half spun in her ear, but a softer side coaxed her to follow, to make sure she was alright and safe in her room with the door locked tonight. To prove that she cared more than fitting under her sheets, that her horrible little secret was genuine.

She shook her head, still in total disbelief over her slip up, and set off, trailing behind her. She wasn’t right on her heels, but Angela still stiffened, neglecting to ask why she followed. Their cells were both in the residential ward of the building, of course, so where else would Moira go?

The walk was not terribly long, but it was dreadfully silent and awfully awkward. Every little interaction they had the entire night played over and over in Moira’s head, and her analytical brain picked over every word, every hand motion, every gesture and smile and frown until she couldn’t take it anymore. 

She hastened her step to allow her to speak quietly, her hands clasped behind her as she stood straight, so prim and proper. “Is your room more than the basic accommodations, Angela?”

Click click click.

“Perhaps you have a nice little kitchen you aren’t sure how best to employ, mm?”

Click click click click click.

“I was wondering if you found your bed satisfactory. Mine feels a bit… short.”

Click click click click click click click.

“Not that you–”

Angela froze so suddenly that Moira bumped into her and bit into her lower lip in the collision, unable to stop her momentum with her much larger size and longer strides. She winced both from the pain of her sharp teeth in her thin, pink lip and the frigidness of Angela’s glance as she scanned the electric lock of her door and swung it open.

It was only a brief moment that Moira possessed to peer inside of her tiny abode, whether her curious self desired to or not. Past the threshold lay a room not too unlike her own, excepting its larger size and… great emptiness. A stark white bed occupied one corner, small and unassuming, with a dark and firm pillow to rest her pretty head on, to soothe and support an aching neck, and a quilt under which to huddle and hide. The walls bore nothing but solitude, no hint to her interests, her childhood joys, her taste in musical tunes or painters or even the faces of friends. Moira had entertained a room decorated from top to bottom with cutesy knickknacks, trinkets, maybe even a stuffed squirrel, pictures of her comrades and old heirlooms, but the lack of it all made perfect sense. Angela spent little time here, even less of it awake. 

She was looking at her again, stone cold and tired, but her cheeks had flushed red and rosy all over again. 

“Goodnight, Doctor,” she said coldly. “Thank you for dinner.”

Moira swallowed. “Thank you, Dr. Ziegler. Goodnight.”

The door shut in her face, and Dr. O’Deorain was left to think.